


Set in Skin

by ThroughStygianColouredGlasses (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fate, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Scars, emaciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:32:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ThroughStygianColouredGlasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world was the artist, and he was the canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set in Skin

  It was the most brutal sight Draco Lucius Malfoy had ever seen, and he had seen the torturing of several at the hands of the Dark Lord. It was a twisted sight, it was warped with pain and frustration and ignorance, cultivated by the careless and uncaring, harvested by rest. It was terrible, it was horrifying, it was truly and completely a sight Draco wished he could forever erase from his mind.

  Everyone knew Potter was small. How could one not, what with him wearing those horrible rags under simple robes, his short Seeker’s build of lithe muscles and 5’5” height standing out amongst the taller, lankier sixth years, particularly his publically-assumed best friend Ronald Weasley, who stood at a broad 6’1” already. Draco hadn’t realized, however, that Potter was this thin, this bony and tired. Potter’s ribs stuck out, and you could count each one grotesquely. His waist was sucked in with lack of proper food, making his slim hipbones seem large in comparison. His knees were knobby, espicially next to his stick-like thighs and calves, and his twiggy arms hung sickeningly at his side. His collarbone stuck up and his spine and shoulder blades stuck out, his shadow-bruised eyes sunken in his weary face, his cheeks almost hallow, his dark pink lips chapped and thoroughly bitten.

  That was enough to make Draco’s eyes widen, but not enough to completely disgust and disturb him. After all, having Lord Voldemort spend some “quality” time in his manor had made him immune to many horrible sights, things he once would have thrown up upon seeing. No, what made Draco want to run as far away as he could from the vision and yet at the same time (miraculously) comfort Harry Potter, his schoolyard nemesis, were the scars.

  He had never imagined he could see so many scars in his life, let alone on one tiny, malnourished body. His shoulder blades were covered in long, thin scars, all raised and pointing upwards in slants, the scars reminding Draco of the whip he had once seen used by his Aunt Bellatrix. There was one scar on his right shoulder blade different that the others—it was thicker, and curled up to cover his shoulder in an almost chain-like pattern, and with a start Draco realized that it probably was probably from a chain of some sort, just like the others were probably from a whip.

  Right above Potter’s naked buttocks, on his tailbone, was another scar, this one even more sickening than the whip or chain scars. It was a branding, apparently done with something extremely hot and painful, and it read as the following: Property of the Famed Gilderoy Royce Lockhart. The words were rough, as if Potter had struggled a great deal while it was placed, which he probably had. It was a terrible scar, inhuman and literally burned onto Potter’s skin, and it didn’t take a genius (of which Draco was close) to figure out why that scar was where it was and why it said what it did. It was exceedingly shocking to Draco, because when the incompetent fraud of a professor named Lockhart had been teaching at Hogwarts, both Draco and Potter had only been twelve. Just twelve years old, and Lockhart had done that to him… Although that did explain Lockhart’s obsession with the raven-haired Boy-Who-Lived, it was still completely wrong and borderline (if not completely) pedophilic, and it made Draco want to vomit.

  After Draco managed to tear his eyes from the branding, he saw many other scars on the small’s boys back before he turned, just minor scars, though, like a small burn there or a cut here. Draco saw something like looked suspiciously like a deep, vicious animal bite of some kind on Potter’s left calf before his body was completely turned around and Draco was then looking at Potter’s nude front, a sight he normally would have teased him with if it were not for the torturous sight before him. The front was even worse than the back, if possible, the largest scar being the word “FREAK” carved crudely into the boy’s stomach, deep and possibly meant to kill, judging by how thick and where the scar wound was. On his right thigh was a large scar, oddly a light white-green in color, looking like a large dot pulled from opposing angles to form a pointed oval of some sort, almost like a star. A similar scar, this one a light grey and perfectly rounded, was placed right under the crease of his right elbow, just as large but more circular than the thigh-scar. On his chest and arms were other small scars, a burn or cut or scratch healed over and leaving just a faint imprint of their adventure (or misadventure, as the case may be) behind as a long-living reminder, and the whip scars from his back were curling over his bony shoulders and emaciated chest, which sported a large burn scar shaped in crisscrossing patterns like an oval with a squared bottom and slightly pointed top.

  Potter’s palm—both of them—was covered in the same type of odd-looking scar, a spider web design stretching across their entire lengths, wrinkled and matching the calluses he had on his fingers and palm knuckles, and Draco came to the conclusion that they were burn marks from times long past. Also on Potter’s hand, this time of the back, were even more words. Carved delicately and in horrifyingly familiar spidery writing were the words, “I must not tell lies.” Had Harry mutilated himself? (And that’s odd; since when had Potter become Harry in Draco’s mind?) Then Draco remembered the rumors of their ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Dolores Umbridge, and how she would use a Dark artifact to force students who received detention with her to harm themselves… students that had often been rubbing their writing hands afterwards, come to think of it.

  On Harry’s right arm was another sign of self-mutilation, although fortunately Draco had heard that worthless rat Peter Pettigrew bragging about it enough times that he was sure the long, white scar in the middle of Harry’s wrist standing vertically was from when Pettigrew had stolen Harry’s blood to resurrect Lord Voldemort, not from a suicide attempt by Harry.

  Harry’s face was mostly clear of scars, even acne ones, something Draco had once enviously looked on more than once as he reached puberty (he’d had to get potions from his godfather to cover hid acne and prevent scaring, while he had noticed a few lucky students, Potter included, only got a couple pimples total, even without salve). There was a small scar just next to Harry’s nose, and of course the damnable lightning bolt shaped scar over the right side of his forehead, but other than those and what looked to be a permanently scarred bottom lip, his face was clear of blemishes. It looked odd, seeing such an almost-perfect face attached to such a scared body, but Draco supposed that, being the hardest thing to hide with spells and potions, Harry himself would be even more grateful that his face had been mostly freed of damage (not including the broken nose he had gotten earlier that year courtesy of Draco himself).

  Harry’s body, all-in-all, was a horrible, awe-inspiring works of art, a painting that inspired books and poems and songs and legends, all full of terrible sorrow and broken determination. It was the life fate had given to Harry James Potter, it seemed, to be its scapegoat, to be it’s perfect little Savior that went into battle pure and kind and good again and again despite all it had done to him…

  The world was the artist, and he was the canvas, once blank and impressionable and now light hiding darkness hiding light, such a pure soul under such a dark mind under such a pure mask. He hid his dark mind under a visible lightness, and hid his good soul under the cover of his dark mind. He wasn’t just broken, he was shattered, and he kept walking through the pieces again and again.

  As a contemplative Draco slipped out the bathroom door, still hidden under his spells and charms, he saw that the scars on Harry Potter weren’t just reserved for his body. The silent, ripping tears falling from those prisoner eyes told him that Harry knew exactly what was happening to himself, and was going to let it happen again anyway, because that was what needed to happen. It was the courage of Godric Gryffindor at its finest moment, the bravery to do what needed to be done despite personal losses.

  And if there was one thing Draco Lucius Malfoy knew about his schoolyard nemesis, it was that Harry would always do what no one else would, the things that needed to happen. So, yes, the world was the artist, the puppet carver itself, and it had chosen Harry James Potter as its marionette, its canvas… and Harry would do what needed to be done to continue on helping people anway. It was a promise, an oath, and its binding word were written on very clearly for all to see. It was set in skin. 

  I must not tell lies…

  And Draco was positive that Harry never would.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first one-shot fanfiction, and as such is more of a test than anything. Any reviews, even flames and especially criticisms, are appreciated. My Microsoft Word is currently not working, so there are probably grammatical, punctuation, and spelling errors that I would be grateful if someone could point out. Thanks!


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